


With Broken Wings

by snowpuppies



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:00:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowpuppies/pseuds/snowpuppies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>W&H brings Darla back too early; set between BtVS S2 and S3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Broken Wings

She's in the middle of a double-shift, feet aching, brain melty and floaty with 'hold the mayo' and 'extra whipped cream,' when _she_ walks in.

Just waltzes through the door like she owns the place.

Okay, well, she doesn't waltz so much as scuttle in like an escaped lab experiment (and she'll laugh at the irony later, thank you very much), and she looks like she's seen a ghost, for all that she is one. 

Or should be. 

Don't get her started on subject-verb agreement when she's working. It's just rude. 

She freezes, narrowly avoiding the splash of hot coffee when she overfills table thirteen's mug and it overflows, staining her apron, but missing her legs. 

She can't believe what she's seeing. 

She waits for the tingles, for the anger, for the righteous fury that she knows will flood her veins at any moment…

…but all she feels is heavy. 

Muttering an apology to the crabby woman at table thirteen, she turns and walks back to the kitchen. 

She's half-way back, fresh mug and a complimentary piece of pie in-hand, when she realizes it's the middle of the day.

 

***

 

 _She_ stays until the end of Buffy's shift, nursing a cup of coffee for hours. 

Drinking coffee, strolling around in the daytime…cue the _Twilight Zone_ music any time. 

Tossing her apron behind the counter, Buffy trods across the floor and sags into the booth across from _her_.

She stares—taking in the dark smudges, haunted eyes, trembling hands—and Darla stares right back. 

"How?" She bites her lip and tries not to think why it's _her_ of all vampires that gets a second chance.

"Evil lawyers."

"So…they just brought you back and let you go? 'See ya later,' 'have a good life'?"

"I—it was a mistake." Dropping all pretense of drinking the still-full cup of coffee, Darla's hands drop to her lap, her gaze following. "They don't know…I heard…some corporate brown-noser acted without company knowledge… They…were going to kill me."

"So you came here." 

"Not here, not…to find… _you_ , at least. I had no idea… I just ran."

"That's some coincidence."

"Look—" Darla reaches across the table, fingers small and frail and warm where they grip Buffy's wrist. "Sl—Buffy, I… I need your help."

 

***

 

She's crazy. Gone completely around the bend in a pair of broken high-heels. 

Watching as Darla tosses and turns in the bed, she knows the Buffy she _was_ would be angry, a desperate and sobbing wreck.

Instead, she just feels empty.

Darla's tossing increases, lips parting in distress as she whimpers.

She crosses the room and perches on the bedside. 

Darla's brow furrows; after a moment, she rolls over and stills.

 

***

 

"He loved you, you know."

The ache is distant; she's under water while the world keeps spinning.

"Honestly," Darla continues, stacking the rinsed plates in the drain, "I was more than a little jealous of you..."

She's breathing. She's still breathing, gaze fuzzy and unfocused, and she notices she's staring at Darla's neck, wondering if he'd ever...how it felt....

"Of _him_." 

She starts, gasping in surprise, and the water recedes and pain blossoms in her chest and she hates herself, hates _her_ , hates _him_. Rage claws up her throat and she chokes on it as it wrests itself from her mouth with a broken cry. She lurches forward and they tumble to the floor, cheap linoleum beneath her palms, buttery golden strands wrapped around her fingers, Darla's pale neck stretched out beneath, plump lips gaping in surprise. She knows where those lips have been, dozens, hundreds, thousands of times, and she'll never be there again and as a wave of hot, throbbing anger shoots up her spine, she falls forward.

She crashes into Darla's mouth, teeth gnawing and tongue thrusting as she takes it all back, all the memories, all the kisses. _She_ can't have them, they're not _hers_ , not at all—and she thinks she's growling, and her cheeks are wet with tears, dripping into blue eyes that made him what he was. As much as she hates Darla, she knows _he_ would have been six feet under long before she was born if it weren't for _her_. She bites down the milky flesh of Darla's throat, teeth sinking deeper and deeper with each mouth full. She clamps down on the tendon and blood, metallic and hot and cloying, fills her mouth. She sucks it down, forces herself to swallow— _he_ did this once, _he_ was here, this is hers now—before wrenching herself away. 

Pulling back, she perches on Darla's hips, chest heaving as she surveys the damage, torn between two urges: to fall again and bite and tear and rend until _she's_ no more than memory, until she's devoured it all, and she has _his_ memory safe in her heart; or to run, as far and as fast as she can, until the tide comes in and she can breathe again.

Darla blinks, touching her neck and holding her hand out to survey the crimson fluid dripping onto her blouse. A smile blossoms on her face, and she begins to laugh, one arm hugging herself as she looks up at Buffy.

"You know, I lied."

Buffy shifts her weight back; the blood curdles in her stomach.

"He didn't love you."

The words strike like a kick to the chest. She scrambles away, tripping over Darla's legs as she struggles to climb to her feet. 

"Oh, he was fascinated, sure. It happened every decade or so—he'd get it in his head to woo one of the pretty young things, get up their skirts and between their legs—"

"Shut. Up." She doesn't want to hear, doesn't want to know this. Darla climbs to her feet and straightens her rumpled clothing, popping a finger into her mouth. She grins; her teeth are red with blood.

"—ruin them for other men." 

Buffy's not listening. _She_ doesn't know Angel. Not _him_.

"He had a thing for virgins, and what can I say? I never blamed him, especially when he would bring them back, sobbing and wet with blood and come, and _share_."

"That's not him." The rage is falling away, dissipating as despair rises in her gut. "Just get out." 

She backs into the counter as Darla crosses the kitchen, head cocked like a viper. 

"You sure you want me to go? Don't you want to—" a small hand skates down Buffy's body, brushing the juncture of her thighs; she grabs Darla's wrist and squeezes, thin bones grating together, "—know where else he's been?"

"Get. Out."

"Suit yourself." Extracting her hand, Darla smiles and exits the kitchen.

She slumps against the counter.

"Oh, and by the way," Darla's voice calls from the door, "enjoy the syphilis."

The door slams.

 

***

 

She barely makes it to the bathroom in time to vomit, blood and bile splashing against the porcelain. 

She watches as the water turns pink.

She tries to hate herself.

Hate Darla.

Hate _him_.

 

She just feels numb.

 

 

 

 _FIN_.

 

Originally archived [here](http://snowpuppies.dreamwidth.org/317007.html).


End file.
